Case 546: Harrison Evans
by Raven Dragonclaw
Summary: Celestial Requiem sidestory. A tough New York private investigator is on the hunt for writer Harrison Evans, alias Harry Potter. She's determined to get him and close the case, even if it takes a little bit violence to get her point across.
1. Claudia K Matchison

_Disclaimer:_ I only own the plot, Celestial Requiem (see disclaimers), and all characters you do not recognize.

* * *

**Case #546: Harrison Evans  
****Claudia K. Matchison**

"I don't get it," she moaned into her cell phone, one finger in her ear to block out the noise of the London traffic around her. She interrupted her conversation briefly to hurl curses at a tall man in a business suit who had collided with her as he was talking on his own cell phone. It was to be noted that the Englishman's comeback of 'bloody idiotic bint' paled in comparison of the vulgar profanity that she flung back at him. Dimly, she could hear the man on the other end of her conversation chuckling at what he could hear. She scowled at the phone – of course he would find that amusing. She was the one doing the major investigative work while he got to stay in the 'jolly good' States. _Probably sitting at his desk,_ was the thought going through her head, _maybe reading a Victoria's Secret magazine. Or a Playboy._ "Adam! It's not funny!"

"What do you mean it's not funny, Claude?" her partner, 3000 miles across the Atlantic Ocean, replied back innocuously. "I'm sure you're educating the English in the ways of the New York American fantastically." There was a brief pause – broken by the sound of a page turning and a low whistle (introduce the rolling of eyes here) – before he answered again. "You've already cursed someone out. Have you run across a subway station really really fast, dodging everyone else with incredible skill? What about stealing someone's taxi? Proclaimed that rugby sucks and baseball is the true sport of men?"

She felt her patience waning as Adam continued to rattle off the stereotypical – and, for the most part, true – views of a common New Yorker on the move. She shivered slightly in the brisk November chill while waiting for Adam to…finish. The woman, athletically fit and toned, was standing against a building at Trafalgar Square, glaring at her cell phone with an intensity that caused others to stare. That could be the reason. It could also be because she was barely five feet tall in height – and she was not going to bother putting that in metric. She knew that she was short, but damned be anyone who dared mention it. The **petite** woman was a mature (so she thought) thirty years old, with short shoulder-length gold blond hair that looked as if she got caught in a fight with a scissor. Like she was going to spend upwards of fifteen dollars just to get a decent haircut when she could do it on her own. Her face was oval shaped, her lipstick a bright red, her hazel eyes narrowed in a dangerous combination of frustration, fatigue, annoyance, and utter rage. The part that she hated most about herself: her nose. She hoped to high heaven that if she ever had a child, that he or she would never inherit the large 'snoz' that she was supposedly gifted with.

Her nose was the only thing worse than her height that a person could use to thoroughly piss of Claudia K. Matchison, private investigator.

Many a criminal got a hefty punch for making fun of her about that particular feature when she joined the NYPD after graduating from college with degrees in forensics, criminology, criminal justice, and computer science.

It was one of the reasons she left the force after a few years. All those credentials and she was shunted to a thankless beat in Harlem. It wasn't so much that the people in the area where horrible – most of them were great with colorful stories and history. She had a lot of good times. However, there were always the bad eggs – pimps, drug dealers, gangs, the works. But when you're in a knife fight with some wannabe thug and all you have for backup is some pasty fat guy who could barely fire a decent shot much less help when it came hand-to-hand, then you'd leave too. Especially when said fat guy would steal your meager breakfast consisting of a bagel and a Starbucks coffee that did not taste as good as the ridiculous price demanded.

Yep, good ole Paulie deserved that black eye when she left.

"Adam, focus with me here and let's get back to work," she growled. Adam was certainly a step above Paulie, there was no denying that. But Adam Taylor was…a geek, to put it mildly. Tall, thin, Dungeons and Dragons obsessed, girlfriendless geek. But it was his…geekiness (largely with a computer) that enabled them to do their job. "We've got to find this guy or else we won't get that $75,000." _And I could **really** use that money._ Money like that didn't come 'round often in the world of private investigators.

Or at least to a small time firm like Wide Eye Investigators were.

"I know, I know," she heard him whine, followed by the telltale pounding of keyboard keys. As he typed away on whatever he was looking at, she tore savagely at the glazed donut she had bought from a vendor when leaving platform seven at King's Cross from Heathrow. Claude grimaced at the foreign taste, tearing her gaze over the milling crowds of native English and loud tourists to look at the pastry as if it were from an alien world. She was a cop – or was a cop, didn't matter. Donuts were sustenance. Donuts were life. And this…thing was not a donut.

But what else did she have? Apparently, these people needed to be introduced to a good NYC donut. And if she couldn't take the donut, then she was definitely staying away from the churros.

Claude's attention was turned back to her partner by his loud profanity. Which she had the pleasure of teaching him mostly, but they really didn't sound all too impressive when coming from him. "Nothing, Claude, absolutely nothing. I've got articles and various public appearances, pictures, critiques, some sites dedicated to him. About his life or origins, nada. Only way to contact him really is through boxes at the post office and an e-mail address: _harrisonevans_ on Yahoo. There was more frantic typing. "Seriously, I can't get anything concrete on this guy. I was only able to pinpoint one thing."

"That is?" she prompted.

"The addresses of the major newspapers that he writes for," Adam elaborated. "He probably mails his articles to them. Or, if not, then they need an address to send the checks to." He cut her off as she was opening her mouth. "I know, I know, the P.O. boxes. But he was bound to leave his real address around somewhere. You know, before he got so big that he had to get them. He's a kid. I doubt he thought that far ahead to conceal his identity in the beginning of this foray of his."

Claude smiled grimly. _Finally, we're getting somewhere._ "It's something. Where to first then, Adam?"

"The home of the London Times," was the amused response. "Do put in a good impression. The Times here at home already flee at the mere sight of you. We don't need to be ruining years of companionship with Mother England because you go bursting in all with guns and fury."

"You just ruined the moment, Adam. Seriously, ruined it." Expertly balancing the phone on her shoulder while taking out a small pad and pen, Claude wrote down the address that Adam read off to her before ending the call. Knowing how newspapers were about their writers and sources (and believe it, she knew **very** well), they'd probably only give her a general area and not the direct address that she would have preferred. But if she could narrow it down to a smaller area, she had much more to work with. After she got what she wanted from the Times, she hit whatever area she was given the next day for more info.

It was a start considering what information that she did have on Evans amounted to what was listed (or rather, considering her quick hand, scrawled) on her pad.

**Case #546  
****Objective: find Harrison Evans (writer), deliver to Mr. M.  
Amount Due: $75,000 each to Claude and Adam****  
**

_What we know:_  
-writer, extremely popular, quirky, intelligent  
-good speaker, makes public appearances  
-famous, and modest about it  
-from England – town uncertain (suburban?)  
-bad reputation, troublemaker cousin  
-works under an alias – classmates do not know  
-student – most likely high school, crashed a car on the grounds at one time  
-single  
-15 to 16 years of age, black hair (messy), eye color believed to be green or hazel  
-friends with writer Helena Crawford (she rules!J)  
-wears sunglasses most of the and post office boxes

_  
Reason for Search:_  
-unknown, just told to locate and deliver (forcibly if necessary)  
-something to do with gov't? Mr. M. a bureaucrat? Gov't agent? Gofer?  
-Definitely a stuck-up snob (manicures his hands).

* * *

Little Whinging, Surrey prided itself on being the epitome of normality. Everyone had around the same income, the houses were clean and presentable, the people greeted each other with faux friendliness while talking behind said neighbors' backs and peeking into their rosebushes. There were soccer games and the occasional cocktail party. They wore the latest clothes (after a sale) and the adults bought expensive lattes as they left for work, while the children played and the teenagers indulged in typical teenage scruples. Completely and utterly ordinary, and that was exactly how the citizens of Little Whinging liked it. And they would train their children to like it, as their parents had, and therefore ensure a tiny community of 'well-meaning, civilized, normal folk'. 

Therefore, that day at Little Whinging Elementary was something that all the children present would remember for a great deal of their lives. For what happened was as far from normal as they had ever encountered. According to later reports from parents, the said incident 'scarred' their children for life. Though the said person who had done the said 'scarring' would claim that she did those kids more good than those parents ever had. Most of those children – and they would agree when they grew up into adults – had to concur with her, particularly one solitary ten year old named Aloysius Samuels, who would grow up to be one of the best detectives England had ever seen.

The said 'disruptor of the peace' was one Claudia K. Matchison. And if one went by the law, they would have to agree that she did do just that. But no one wanted to tell that to her face. There was something about that short-tempered, extremely short, blonde American woman that no one wanted to cross. Though a security guard learned that the hard way when he tried to 'escort' her out.

It just wasn't everyday that a tiny woman managed to throw a nearly six-foot tall, a hundred and seventy-five pound man over her shoulder and floor him. Then, when said woman congratulated herself on a black belt in judo before flashing a badge and demanding that she speak with Principal Rawlins. Of course, the lunchtime aides didn't dare refuse her.

The building wasn't originally built to be a school…but it turned out that it became one anyway. The decision was made when the people of Little Whinging were less normal and altogether a lot more interesting. But those days were gone…sadly. So when Claude decided to leap over the fence to get inside the building, security was obviously shocked. And soon disposed of. The security guards of Little Whinging Elementary had never been in a situation like this (or any real situation to begin with for that matter) and therefore were not very well equipped for dealing with an ex-New York City cop on a mission who was also in serious need of some good caffeine (Claude **despised** tea).

Professor Rawlins, a prim graying woman that looked extremely out of place, looked up from behind her desk in alarm when Claude burst in, preceding the increasingly nervous aide. Closing the door in the aide's face, Claude strode forward and sat in one of the plastic chairs in front of the principal's desk. Rawlins, to her credit, decided to show no emotion to this newcomer. Which earned her points in Claude's estimation. But Claude wasn't looking for people that she actually had some respect for. She was out for information. That was it. "You must be…Kendra Rawlins, the principal of this school," she shot out, her accent sounding grating and coarse in this country. "I'm Claudia Matchison, an investigator. I was wondering if you might be able to help me with a case of mine."

Rawlins easily cleared her desk before leaning back to survey the blonde woman with suspicious gaze. "Excuse me if I'm not to forthright with you," she answered. "I find that I usually don't get _American_ investigators trespassing on my school grounds and attacking my guards." Claude didn't bat an eyelash. Indeed, she had done worse. Just ask Bill Gates…yeah. _That_ was an interesting adventure. "How can I help you then?" the principal asked coldly. "It's my experience that Americans are incredibly stubborn and wouldn't give up even if you slammed a door in their face."

Claude smiled grimly. "An accurate truth. I was hired to find a person, who happens to be a teenager. But he is hidden under an alias. My sources and inquiries led me to this town. As this is the only elementary school in the area, I figured I'd get a good start here."

"Why not the high schools?" Rawlins put forward. "If he's a teenager, it would be much better to look for him there."

"He doesn't go to a local high school," Claude answered simply. "He goes someplace else. But he does live here and most likely went to _this_ school before heading off to who-knows-where." She took out her small notebook, taking out a pen as she did so. "Do you think you can help me out? School records may be off-limits, I'm aware, but someone might remember a person that fits his description."

The old principal sighed. "Just give me a physical description and a span of time. I'll probably be able to recall a few names for you. I've been working here for neigh forty years. If this kid is as intriguing as you're implying, then it shouldn't be too hard."

Claude grinned. _I couldn't have asked for a better start._ "He probably went here about…five to six years ago." The principal nodded, the wrinkles in her forehead creasing even deeper. "Let's see…messy black hair, hazel or green eyes, intelligent, a bit weird, bad reputation around the town-"

"Harry Potter," Rawlins interrupted.

Claude blinked. _That was quick._ "Harry Potter? That's who you think it is?"

Rawlins sighed and leaned back in her seat, folding her hands together in her lap. "It's most likely him. Your profile certainly fits what he's like." She closed her eyes, a slightly sorrowful expression falling on to her face. "A nice child, though he had a hard lot in life. The boy was small for his age, scrawny. Black hair as you said and green eyes like you wouldn't believe. Though he did wear glasses." _Must be prescription lenses then. Evans wears sunglasses._ "Polite little boy, he barely made a peep if he wasn't addressed to directly. He should be about sixteen by now. And he was certainly an oddity when he attended here. All these strange things happened around him."

"Strange things?" she asked, pen ready. "Can you elaborate?"

"Things I've never seen before in my life," Rawlins replied. "I remember a few of them. He turned his teacher's wig blue, managed to cause a small blaze in his seat on a very cold winter's day. I remember that he had a terrible flu at that time and was shivering like mad." She laughed shortly. "Even ended up on the roof. However, each and every time it looked as if he had no intention of actually _doing _it. Not consciously anyway." _Okay…we got here 'quirky' alright. Though what does it all mean?_ "Though he was quite intelligent and insightful, though too jaded for his age in my opinion. He had few friends and was always a loner. We tried to get him to see the psychologist here, but his guardians wouldn't allow it." The elderly lady shook her head sadly. "You can tell that they hated the poor child. They seemed to think that everything that went wrong was his fault, including their son's far from stellar performance in class." She frowned in thought. "I assume that was why little Harry kept his grades lower. You could tell by talking to him that he was extremely smart, but he received only C's. **Dudley**, however, was A-level. I always had the suspicion that Harry was doing Dudley's homework for him."

"Dudley?" Claude asked. "Was that his brother?"

"No, I wouldn't wish **that** on the poor child. Dudley was his cousin. Harry has lived with his aunt and uncle since he was one." Seeing Claude's annoyed expression (annoyed that she didn't know what that meant), Rawlins went on. "Harry was an orphan. His parents died in a car crash. I know that his aunt and his mother never got on too well. Petunia was practically broadcasting how her sister dumped her child on them, that they were such saints for taking him in." An infuriated sniff. "That woman is no saint. Either she was paid to take care of Harry or someone scared her into doing so."

_Evans mentioned a cousin a couple of times in his articles. There seemed to be no love lost there. Perhaps this is whoever Dudley is?_ "Can you describe Dudley for me, Ms. Rawlins?"

Claude felt that she had hit the wrong note when an angry scowl replaced the reminiscent expression on the principal's face. "Dudley Dursley," she muttered angrily. "I never want him around my school ever again. An overweight spoiled brat, I got calls from parents all the time complaining about him. But I couldn't do much; nearly everyone was scared of him and if not him, then that monstrosity of a father. Anyone who dared to stand up to him were usually beat up by Dudley and his gang. They particularly picked on Harry." _Overweight…afraid of being crushed, maybe? This Dudley should meet my cousin Dennis. Both of them are jerks. They could kill each other and leave the world all the more a better place._ "His parents however were adamant that their **darling** son was a complete and utter angel. That Harry was much worse. I know that he was hardly intelligent, but as I said before, he probably got others to do his work for him."

"What's he doing now?"

"He goes off to some uppity private school – to the relief of the local parents – called Smeltings. Though I see him around smoking pot with his friends and vandalizing parks and cars. I wouldn't be surprised if he was doing worse." Rawlins was still scowling. "From what I know, they've sent Harry off to some institution for the criminally insane or some other nonsense. St. Brutus, or something like that. It gives him a bad reputation around here. People around here tend to avoid him like the plague. I personally have never seen him do anything wrong."

_Dudley is certainly toeing the law and they don't get along. And this Harry also has a bad reputation around here. _Claude smiled grimly. It certainly seemed that Harry Potter was the elusive Harrison Evans. The pieces seemed to fit. All she needed to do was contact Adam to check out the school listings if this St. Brutus place had Harry Potter attending. If not, then she probably hit the mark. Meanwhile, she would check out 'little Harry's' guardians. _Maybe have a small talk with his cousin, too…_

Yeah, that **would** be fun. Insert evil maniacal laughter.

* * *

If there was one thing that Claude hated most in the world, it was repetition. And Privet Drive seemed to be the epitome of it. Of course, she couldn't do anything about it. She was an officer of the law – in her own way – and therefore responsible for maintaining order and peace in the world, no matter where she was. But this was order and peace to the extreme. She wanted nothing more than to rip out those 'lovely' hydrangeas and throw them here and there. Possibly spray a few of those annoyingly white picket fences with some mud. Tear up some concrete. Perhaps get out the spray paint and proclaim that she was 'here'. Sadly, that tether of law bound her from doing so. 

_Sometimes I wish I wasn't an officer. The law can be a piece of crap at times…okay, most of the time._ She grimaced at the two women talking wildly to each other across their fences, decked out in a gala of flowery garden clothing. They in turned looked at her with blatant disapproval, their eyes lingering on her oversized beige army fatigue shirt and tight khakis, complete with black combat boots. Hey, she was fighting a metaphorical war to find this guy. She was not wasting her life away making sure the impatiens were growing in perfect clumps perpendicular to the marigolds and forty-five degrees diagonally from the primroses. Claude actually did something with her time.

As she approached the residence of Vernon Dursley at 4 Privet Drive, her cellular phone rang. Pulling the small device out of its clip on her belt, she greeted simply, "Matchison."

"It's me," Adam's voice came across smoothly. "I got what you wanted. There **is** a St. Brutus'. More accurately, a St. Brutus' Institute for Incurably Criminal Boys. It has to be this one because there isn't any others anywhere near Surrey. You should see this place, it's like a prison! They've got guards, gruel, and the whole nine yards. Reminds me of Riker's Island…at least it isn't as bad as Sing-Sing-" A low growl alerted him to the fact that he was rambling. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that. No record of a Harry Potter. Though there is something strange…"

"What?"

"There's a whole slew of stuff on Harry Potter. It's all weird stuff too…about magic and all. And some bloke named…well, I don't know what his name is. They keep calling him 'You-Know-Who' and 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'." More typing in the background, though Claude continued down the street as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. Though she was getting quite a few stares. These were easily disposed with a practiced glare. "It's all weird stuff…with the occult and witchcraft. Even…wizardry? They practically have everything about him written down here. Including a quite a few shrines by lovelorn girls."

"Is this some kind of joke?" Claude demanded.

"Doesn't look like it. There are sites in English, German, Spanish, Greek, Russian, Swahili, Chinese – this is international! This is can't be a joke. Though it says the name of his school is…Hogwarts." _Hogwarts…now that does sound like a joke._ "They also mention a lot of stuff about a war, wizards and witches, honestly it sounds like a farce. But there's just too many to say that it **isn't** one."

She frowned in thought, wondering what this could all mean. This Harry Potter had more things hidden about him than she figured. Which made her all the more curious. _Well, even if this kid isn't Evans, I want to meet him._ There must be something up if everyone claimed he went to a school named Hogwarts, had international websites dedicated to him, and so it appeared heavily involved in witchcraft. Not that she had anything against the Wicca community, which she assumed this 'witchcraft' and 'wizardry' this was about. As long as it didn't go into cult status, they could believe what they wanted to believe. Though she was always a bit skeptical of the beliefs that those people held. She did not want to hear that donuts were 'disgusting creations' and were looked down upon by 'the Goddess'.

Her niece could stay with the 'Goddess' then for all she cared. She was staying Catholic then. For if there was a just and loving God, he would love donuts too. And if he didn't…well, then there was just something wrong with the divine creator, that's for sure.

"I'll check out the uncle on the lead I got," Claude said tersely. "People seem to be afraid of him around here, so this will be fun."

"Just don't get arrested," was the last message before he hung up.

* * *

Adam's warning was completely ignored. For Claude did get arrested…sort of. More accurately, the local police were called in and realized that she was practicing 'self-defense'. So she gave Vernon Dursley a black eye and kneed him in the groin. He certainly deserved it. And it definitely qualifies as self-defense if he was going at her with a rifle that he had kept near under the sofa. 

…Okay, he just 'threatened' her with it. He didn't actually shoot. But **no one** calls her a 'big-nosed freak' and gets away with it. Besides, it should also count in self-defense when Dursley's miniature self i.e. his son tries to knock her out by using some boxing moves. If anything, he should have learned in that preppy school this one fact: don't go on and on about your abilities before you take your opponent out. Besides, he had an extremely weak left hook. When her right smashed into his nose, it was like sinking into putty. And lil' Dudley made quite a big bang when he fell to the ground unconscious.

Whoever this Harry Potter was, he had the patience of a saint.

But if there was one thing that she was not used to, it was having a white snowy owl deliver notes. Particularly from people that she was looking for. It was by far a first; the person was contacting her and not the other around. The owl that was perched on the sill of her hotel window didn't seem to like her much, for it just ruffled its feathers in a sort of hostile fashion (why, she didn't know, but maybe it was just protective of its master) before it flew off, leaving the note behind. She was amused, needless to say, when she read the letter it returned to her. The note was written on a strange kind of paper, the handwriting was written in ink…like from a quill pen.

_ I was quite surprised to find that my whereabouts have come under such scrutiny. Don't think that you're the only one who has ways of finding out information. Though I admit that you're much better than the previous ones that have tried to find me. Has a Mr. M. approached you about me? I advise you to discontinue your contact with him. For even if you do succeed in bringing me to Mr. M. (or, as I know him, Mr. Malfoy) as he calls himself, he won't pay you. He would kill you. It's up to you to pay attention to my warning or not._

_But other than that, congratulations. You have found out that the disadvantaged, poor Harry Potter is Harrison Evans. You're the only one that has actually come this far. Why do I do what I do? I have my reasons._

_I suppose you would like for us to meet. If I go by how my luck seems to serve me, no doubt it will be soon. I'll be waiting for you, Ms. Matchison. But until then, we'll just have to be patient._

**_---Harry Potter (Harrison Evans)_**

**_There was no denying it. Harry Potter was one intriguing individual._**

**__****_Case #546_**  
Harry Potter is Harrison Evans. That much I'm sure about.  
Where he is at the moment is another matter.  
But God help me I'm going to find this guy. If he wants to play a game of cat-and-mouse, then we'll play all right. I have the feeling that this kid will make it fun. And I haven't had fun like this in a long time.  
Bring it on, Harry Potter. 

**___---Claudia K. Matchison, private investigator_**


	2. Common Sense

_Disclaimer: _I only own the plot, Celestial Requiem (see disclaimers), and all characters you do not recognize.

* * *

**Case #546: Harrison Evans   
Chapter Two: Common Sense**

_"The last time anybody made a list of the top hundred character attributes of New Yorkers, common sense snuck in at number 79."  
- Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless_

On the whole, no one on Privet Drive was very happy. The weather didn't help much either. The rain was coming down in sheets and nothing was spared from its cold wet touch. The residents of Little Whinging, Surrey never liked rain all that much – sprinkles certainly, but a rain like this was undoubtedly unnatural in their minds. This all was connected in some grand scheme to the intruder into their quiet neighborhood. This intruder was abnormal and freakish with her strange clothing, strange looks, strange accent, and especially with her questions. She was disrupting the traditional and normal atmosphere of their little suburb by making people question things other than whether their impatiens were growing perpendicular to the marigolds this growing season or whether Pamela dumped John for her lover Christopher on their favorite daytime soap opera. The children were pursuing other interests than what their parents wanted and had taken to following the woman around to see what would happen, as many interesting things tended to take place around her. There were a number of people, if they had anything to say about it, would have her thrown out of town. Those who dwelled on Privet Drive were the stalwart vanguards of this notion. However, the intruder had proven both wily…and violent.

To tell the truth, extremely violent. And while the Little Whingingians would prefer to keep their little town in its boring peace, it would do nothing to defend this so called right. The truth was, they were quite scared of this woman. Though it had to be admitted that most people who had ever met this woman turned out to be scared of her anyway, so this was not unusual. It was unfortunate that the people of Little Whinging didn't know this – it might have brought them some comfort in that they weren't weird.

This woman had a name – Claudia Kathleen Matchison. She was born, raised, and usually lived in New York City in the United States of America. She was a former police officer with the New York Police Department and was now currently a private investigator.

It should also be noted that she wasn't particularly happy either. She never liked monotonous and dull places. This was why she always preferred the cities – there was always something going on and if you were boring, then you were abnormal. A strange concept, but it was true. And after nearly a full month of being out of her element – namely the United States, where people drove on the **_right _**side of the road – and in quite possibly Britain's most uninteresting milieu, she was getting antsy. And Claude wasn't a person who should be antsy.

She was right now standing in the middle of a public park, one that seemed to be vandalized not too long ago. Claude could easily tell who did the job – there was only one person she could equate with 'Big D'. And she had to admit that compared to what defacement she had seen back home, these kids had no idea what they were doing. And she had the feeling that one of them spelled his name wrong – Malicolm? Probably started out writing the gang name and ended up with adding a letter to his _real _one. Yeah. The small blonde woman sneered at this. She was most unimpressed.

Claude was wearing her boots, of course. There would be no other kind of shoe that would be able to stand this kind of weather. She had worn a dark blue raincoat over her black jeans and red turtleneck sweater, one brown gloved hand holding on to the handle of her green umbrella and the other on a cell phone. To those that tended to follow her around, it seemed that she always was perpetually annoyed with _something_ when talking to the person on the other end.

Today was no different.

"Not one place, Adam! Not even one!" she ranted over the overseas connection to her 'tech support' and partner, Adam Taylor. It did not help that he was probably warm and dry in their New York office while she was three thousand miles away getting soaked to the skin. There was a turning of a page and a low whistle – Claude felt her already meager patience wearing thin. "Adam!"

Pause, before a tentative, "Yes? You were saying?"

"I pay you to help me with the computer, not to look at God-knows what dirty magazine you're looking at right now! You've got three seconds to respond or I hop on the soonest jet to New York and beat the living crap out of you!"

"…You're not in a good mood, I take it."

"What was your first clue?"

There was a renewed typing of keys, though Claude swore that she heard the turning of a page in between the rapping. "Listen, Claude," Adam said long-sufferingly, as he had been privy to her outbursts for a long time. "I'm sure that Britain has **_plenty_** of good donut places and quite a few places to get a decent coffee. You're just being stubborn about it and can't face the fact that there might be places in the world that serve just as good, if not better, donuts and coffee than back here in New York. And I'm also sure that Juan Valdez doesn't have a special preference for the Big Apple."

"Just saying that should be a crime, Adam. And I've certainly haven't found anything remotely resembling a good coffee here. The last one I had looked and tasted like shit, therefore I am inclined to believe that's exactly what it was."

"You're being unreasonable, Claude. Besides, you never know. British people probably find our teas and cookies…or biscuits; I don't know what _they_ call 'em…revolting. No doubt they consider us heathens. Or at least unhealthily inclined." He allowed her a second to overcome her growing annoyance with him. "So! Found anything new on Evans? Excuse me, I mean, Potter?"

"One thing from his aunt. That's about it and it took a lot of threatening and other punch to her darling husband's pasty and hairy face to get it. Everything else was nothing that I don't already know," Claude answered tonelessly. "I get the same thing everywhere. He's a freak, he's a delinquent, he's a troublemaker, he's an ungrateful twerp that takes advantage of his good and decent relatives, he's a boil on the ass of society."

"Did they really say that last one?"

"No, but that's what it amounted to. They were much more polite about it than I was. They say that his cousin is a complete **angel** – those were their words – compared to him. They actually say this kid has no place in this town. And those were the adults. The kids were more brutal."

"Of course, they're kids. Remember the Ferguson case?"

"Put side by side with the Brooklyn kids who testified there about Ferguson and these kids, they're country bumpkins when it comes to cursing."

"They probably heard about you and your **tremendous** vocabulary and tried to impress you."

_He is so lucky I'm across an ocean,_ she thought irritably. "Did you getting anything more on this Potter kid? We know he's Evans, but we've got no idea how to contact him." She scowled at the graffiti decorating the metal slide, though her anger was more focused toward the mysterious boy she had never met. "I don't like having the people I'm looking for not only know that I'm on to them, but also having them contact **me**!"

"I know, Claude, but I haven't gotten anything more than we already know. Yes, I've checked out for this Hogwarts place!" he declared before she could say anything further. "While I am getting information**about **the school, I'm getting nothing on **where** it is. And I'm getting really bored with all these stories about their founders. Honestly, just the sheer amount of praise given to this Gryffindo-or guy makes the other Slyth-something person seem justified. And what kind of name is _Hufflepuff_?"

"Adam…" Claude growled.

"Yes, Claude, I'm aware that I'm missing your point, but I just wanted to share with you the fact that one of their founders had a name that sounds like something you would call those marshmallow peeps that they sell at Easter."

* * *

Claude disliked Little Whinging for another reason and that was the fact that it provided her with very little information that she wanted. All that the citizens seemed to give her were the farces and deceptions that Harry Potter seemed to have put up his entire life. The only semblance of truth that she managed to find out about the boy came from Principal Rawlins of the elementary school. For that she was eternally grateful, but there was still the fact that an entire town had not even the tiniest inkling of the true nature of a boy who had grown up among them for years. Why was that?

After much goading (a great deal of it, plus some payback on 'dear Vernon'), she managed to find the former address of Harry Potter's parents. From what she heard around town, they had died in a car crash and Harry had been the only survivor. She didn't like the story – to her ears, it sounded a bit too far-fetched, especially considering how much Potter had done to conceal his personality and past – but it was a start.

All she found was a ruin. And it was still raining. After being nearly killed in her rental car because she still hadn't quite mastered driving on the left or having the steering wheel on the right, this wasn't something she was very happy with. In short, the short woman with a short fuse threw a short tantrum. It wasn't out of disrespect or anything. She was just upset.

She was only left with one option. Claude did not like it – especially since she was drenched (throwing her umbrella to the ground and cursing had been part of the tantrum), she went around to the neighbors. What she found were three abandoned houses, an old woman who thought that she was her niece Patricia (it was later explained that Patricia hadn't visited in ten years and the old woman was hoping that she would come back), and finally the last neighbor was a crotchety old man whom everyone else called Jimmy. Crazy Jimmy.

To her, it sounded as if he were some happy guy that liked to swing dance. Lunatic Jimmy would have been more appropriate for calling someone insane in her mind, but she could only assume that the people of Godric's Hollow never assumed that anyone would come up with that image in their head anyway.

Why was Jimmy crazy? The villagers said that he always saw strange things happening, particularly strange things concerning the young Potter couple that had lived in the now collapsed house. **_This _**interested her. Jimmy used to say that he saw the young husband pop in and out of thin air, wearing long bathrobes. He also swore the red-haired wife used magic beams of light to help her garden grow and make things float to amuse their son, who sometimes even did it on his own. He said a preposterous thing on the day that they died – that they were home and some man came in and fired green shots of light at them, making the two adults fall dead. And then there was a third flash of green light, two screams (a baby's and an adult's), before the house collapsed and he saw some kind of dark shadow moving from the scene, slithering across the ground like a snake. To make the tale even more fantastical, a giant and a wild young man on a flying motorcycle fought over the somehow still surviving child.

Yep. Crazy Jimmy.

Even though they had been gone neigh over fifteen years, Jimmy still kept a vigilant eye on the ruins of the old Potter house. He claimed that he still saw people pop in from time to time, as of late an old man with a long white beard. Of course, no one believed him.

When Claude decided to meet with this man and spoke to him, she came to one conclusion. He was an embittered atheist, but the sort of atheist who does not so much disbelieve in God as personally dislike him. Why? Because God obviously didn't like him as much as those other people who had all the **'magic powers'**.

Talking to him was like pulling out teeth. Not that Claude could do that if she wanted to – but she had great confidence in her skills at improvisation. The old man then flashed her a wide set of empty gums before putting in his dentures. _Apparently, someone had beaten me to it…_Claude wasn't too badly fazed by this action, as it was something she was used to practically all her life. Uncle Maurice and Aunt Sophie back in Brooklyn loved doing that during New Year's, while they argued over the eggnog. Only Crazy Jimmy did not wield dangerous ladles and crystal drinking glasses.

Violence was deemed hereditary among all Matchisons.

"NYPD," the old man growled – because he didn't exactly **speak**, and Claude had a low tolerance for British accents anyway (and here she was in the country itself…irony) – "what the blooming hell does that mean?" Claude's eyes narrowed in frustration and annoyance as she dug her hands deeper into her dark blue vinyl jacket, **'NYPD'** emblazoned in white along with her (former) number. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight baseball cap, threaded through her New York Yankees baseball hat. Beige khakis were tucked into her black army boots, one of which was tapping against the floorboards of the porch impatiently. She was sure that the old man was purposely doing this to annoy her.

Personally, she believed that there was some kind of overall conspiracy against her in this case. And it seemed as if the leader of this whole drama was Harry Potter, more widely known as Harrison 'international-figure-teenage-heartthrob-annoyingly-mysterious-kid-who's-freakin'-hard-to-find' Evans. She had come up with all that by herself. Whoo-freakin'-hoo. It meant nothing because she hadn't found him. So while frivolous and multi-hyphenated epithets were amusing, they were far from helpful.

The fact that the kid outsmarting her was little more than half her age did not help her (or her general mood) in the very least.

"New York Police Department," she answered curtly, trying to keep her impatience and displeasure reined in and not to lash out. "Now I'd like to ask you about-"

"You're from York? Don't lie to me, gel, you aren't from York! Your accent is all wrong. Didn't anyone teach you how to speak proper English?"

For a moment, she wanted to forget that old rule about respecting elders and snap back just like she would if she were dealing with some punk wannabe thug back in the city. Surely, no one would actually **miss** Crazy Jimmy, would they? Probably not, but she was still an officer of the law, to her chagrin. "**_New_** York," Claude enunciated slowly, her voice clipped and sharp. "I'm not British, I'm from the United States."

"Well, **_that_** explains why you can't speak English right," the old man quipped back, leaning back in his rocking chair and grinning madly. "Lousy Americans. You're all a bunch of hyped up savage egotists. **_No _**class."

"Thank you," she answered back sarcastically, preferring not to think about how close that description matched her own personality…and trying to ignore Adam's laughter through her cell-phone's headphone/microphone (Adam had too much time on his hands and created it, Claude didn't ask for details as she wasn't very interested in the whole technological aspect or the patent pending and economic benefits of it, only if it worked or not). "Now, I just want to ask you some-"

"If you're a bobby from the States, what in the bloody knickers are you doing here? You're off by a keen three thousand miles, you know." There was a conspiracy against her. There just had to be. "Get lost or something?"

She resisted the urge to maim. Unbeknownst to her at the time, she had broken the record for how long she could keep her temper. "I don't know what the hell you meant with calling me a '_bobby'_, you senile old man," she answered testily, using emphasis. "But I **_used_** to be a police officer. I'm a private investigator and **now I'm getting annoyed!**" By the end of her tirade, she was shouting.

"Now that's just rude," the old man answered back, sour. "You want to know about the Potters. Right?" He reached over and picked up a cigar from a nearby glass ashtray, which was obviously stolen by some hotel. He lit it, and blew a smoke-ring at her, which Claude promptly wafted away. She wrinkled her nose at the stench – they weren't Cubans, that was for sure. "That's why anyone comes to me these days. And I stand by what I said to all those others!" Jimmy shook his cigar patronizingly at her, as if she were some kind of unruly (or stupid) student in need of discipline. "Snake-man showed up, blew them away with a flash of green light. Two screams, one a baby's. Then a guy comes with his flying motorcycle – guy looks like he's in shock. Then some giant – not joking here, gel, don't give me that look – an actual **_giant_**-"

Claude only had time to register a red beam of light hurtling straight at her before everything went black.

* * *

She slowly fought through the layers of haziness that floated in her skull, her hazel eyes opening and blinking bemusedly as she regained her consciousness. As she shook her head to clear it, she made to lift her hands to her head…to find that she could not move them. Immediately, Claude snapped to attention, jerking the hands bound behind her back to the backbone of a hard straight-backed chair but unable to free herself.

_Not good,_ she thought to herself. _Really not good._

She took a moment to briefly assess her surroundings. It was a small room, unremarkable and plain, gray walls and floor. A large glass mirror, gilded and bordered by obscenely tacky obese cherubs, did not reflect her image. She squinted to see more, but the overhead lighting was dim. There was only one exit – the strong-looking metal door tucked away in the corner. The table in front of her was made of hefty hardwood, in which someone had the courtesy of carving in the words: _"Dark Lord Forever, 1980."_ Was that a strange kind of rock star or something? Maybe this 'Dark Lord' was a heavy metal singer who went on tour back then. It was the kind of thing she would have done back when she was a kid and a huge fan of KISS.

It should be noted that her large teenage crush on Gene Simmons had been stamped out completely when she discovered the joys of Indiana Jones. But moving on.

**"Claude? Claude, can you hear me? God, Claude, answer me!"**

"Loud and clear," she muttered softly. "I've just woken up, idiot."

**"Speak up, I can barely hear you. There's a huge amount of static and buzzing!"**

"Not taking that chance. They might be watching me. You're my backup."

** "I don't believe it has ever occurred to you that I'm nearly three thousand miles away across a perpetually growing Atlantic Ocean, has it?"**

"It has, now be quiet!" she hissed. "Someone's coming in. Maybe you'll hear them, too. Can you record through this damned contraption?"

**"Yeah. Give me a sec…it's on."**

"Good," she breathed. Whatever she was about to face, she would be able to look back on it later. If she weren't alive to tell the tale, then Adam would make damn sure that he made those damn bastards that killed her pay. She'd haunt him to his own death if he didn't.

The metal door opened and a tall young man with red hair and horn-rimmed glasses walked in, looking rather frustrated and annoyed, fixing her with the kind of glare that implied she was deliberately ruining whatever his routine was. The kind of guy that annoyed Claude immensely – the type that was so straight and narrow that his hair had to be parted as well…

* * *

A bright smile was on Claude's face as she packed away her things into her suitcase. She made sure to include everything of hers – all her papers, her clothes, her necessities, everything. She left a large tip to the hotel room service in the appropriate dish, but also made sure that everything was somewhat clean to make their job easier. It was the least she could do after all: she had spent the last couple of months there. Claude was unhappy to look back and find times when she was unbearably rude and boorish to the staff.

She shook her head in dismay. Perhaps she should apologize. Or at least leave a larger tip.

Looking around the plain and simple hotel room, her face was once again lit up by a bright grin. _There! All done! And I didn't even steal the hotel toiletries or pillows!_ This was, in her mind, a huge accomplishment. Especially since her flat was home to several items that had homes originally in various Ramadas, Holiday Inns, and the occasional Plaza. The aforementioned items included a rather tacky lamp that was her cramped New York apartment's primary source of lighting.

…_Maybe I should return that too, _she wondered, before shrugging and picking up her suitcase, also shouldering the duffle bag containing all her electronic things. Speaking of which, the bag – blue and orange for the New York Mets baseball team – had started to ring. Claude sighed loudly before deposit all her bags to the floor.

She managed to dig her cell phone out from underneath her laptop and Walkman, though briefly letting annoyance fly across her mind before it was veiled once again in abject cheerfulness. Maybe it was Adam! She hadn't spoken to him since yesterday. Hopefully he would still consent to speak to her – she was rude to him a lot in the past. But he really did need to get out of that office of theirs or his apartment. Meet a girl. Get laid. Be a normal man in his twenties, not slaving over a computer and drooling over glossy pages of brushed up busty blondes.

"Claude! Thank goodness I've caught you-"

"Hello, Adam! How are you?" she enthused.

There was a short pause. "I am speaking to Claudia K. Matchison, right."

"Yes," Claude answered. "You know it's me."

There was some more typing, what sounded like a tape recorder playing in the background, and several loud curses (which mortified her sensitive ears and refined manners!) before Adam returned to the phone. "Claude? You still there?"

"Adam, what's going on?" she asked, now concerned. _What if he's sick? Maybe I've overworked him! Lord knows he doesn't eat right with all that fast food and those instant noodles! _"You're not ill, are you?"

"No, I'm not," was the terse reply. "Though you probably are. Whatever that '**obliviate**' thing they did to you, it certainly messed you up."

"What on bloody – okay, I understand. You're sick and you won't admit it. Don't worry; I'll be back to the States in a couple hours. Then I'll give you a week's vacation with pay. That sound good, love?"

"For fucking sake, you're speaking in a British accent!" Adam shouted back, with a small mutter of '_and a bad one, too_' following. "No, you're staying right where you are! You are **_not _**under any circumstances coming home. We've still got the Harrison Evans case to close – or at most come to a place where we can back out with dignity."

Claude blinked in confusion. "Harrison Evans? I've never heard of anyone named that. **_Harrison Ford_**, then God, yes, but-"

Adam interrupted her, "What did you do yesterday?"

"I saw the sights of London," Claude answered, frustration now beginning to tinge her voice. "I had just come down from Liverpool, where I saw the Beatles' hometown and everything. You know how they're my favorite band of all time."

There was a crash and then silence dragged on for a full three minutes this time. To realize the full extent of Claude's effect, one had to see what was going inside a small office in the United States. In the city of New York, Adam Taylor was sitting at his computer in shock. One hand was raised as if it was holding something, but the coffee mug had shattered on the floor. An innocent cruller, on its way to Adam's mouth, was halted in its journey to impeding doom. Fifi, the annoying spoiled cocker spaniel owned by the eccentric Mrs. Alabaster-Delgrady that had a habit of yipping with every other breath, was quiet. Somewhere outside, an act of kindness was being committed for no other good reason than for being 'in a good mood'. The Playboys and Victoria's Secrets magazines lay abandoned.

"Adam? Adam! Hello?"

"Claude?" he responded, albeit weakly.

"What's wrong? Did you collapse? I want you to go straight home and get some rest, young man. I won't have another word out of you!"

"Claude, I've one more thing to ask-"

"Fine, only **_one_**."

Across the Atlantic, Adam crossed his fingers and prayed. "How are the donuts and coffee in London?"

"Why, they're fab-" Claude stopped. Her forehead creased in thought and concentration. _Wait a minute. No they aren't. New York's are better. _She ignored the nice whispering voice that tried to wrap her again in calm and soothing emotion. The voice that said in her mind that London's donuts and coffees were fantastic, that the Beatles were the best, and that stealing from hotels could rank among the highest offenses in Catholic doctrine. Her smile began to falter, the ends beginning to turn down.

_No…_her mind insisted. _The donuts and coffee are…garbage…_

It was then that everything came back to her in frightening clarity. The case, Harry Potter and Harrison Evans, Crazy Jimmy at Godric's Hollow, the red lights, the interrogation by the red-haired twerp, an argument that resulted in a smashed chair and several injuries to her captor (black eye, swollen and bleeding lip, bloody nose, and a lot of bruises), a wooden stick somehow immobilizing her and some more words that made no sense.

"Claude? You okay?"

"I'm here," she barked back, her voice returning to its harsh normal American accent. "And I'm going to find that bastard who attempted to brainwash me and castrate him. Painfully. Then I might kill him. Or leave him there to die slowly. Whichever. Either way, **HE IS GOING TO GET IT!**"

"Do I still get that vacation?"

"You are not moving from that computer until I say so or unless you can't even move those fingers of yours. I pay you to work, not take vacations! Now get to it!"

"Now **_there's _**the Claude I know and love."

"I meant what I said. The day I give you a vacation for the hell of it is the day that I marry Gary Stewart from high school after years of absence and my nursing of a remark about my exceptionally large nose."

"I figured. But I was just making sure."

* * *

It didn't take long for Adam to find out more about this magic community. He managed to find several chat room of wizards and witches on the Internet, discussing topics as varied as transfiguration to professional Quidditch to dark lords. To compensate for their lack of knowledge, Adam used the screen name _"Oblivatednotforgetful75"_ and pretended to be a wizard on the wrong end of…whatever Claude had been hit with, asking for explanations to nearly everything. Most were sympathetic and were happy to lend a helping hand to "that poor bloke" or "unlucky guy" or "unfortunate fellow".

That was the gist of what Adam had told Claude of how he gained all his information. There had been a lot more involved – including a trade off of sites that would showcase various models and beautiful women with someone with the screen name "_tricksupthesleevesFletcher_" and their uncle Mundungus – but Claude wasn't paying close attention to that part. Only what she needed to know.

And that was, in short, how to act like a witch in a wizarding environment.

It was difficult at first, but once they found the British community of wizards then it wasn't hard to find the American ones. Not surprisingly, the American wizards and witches were a lot bolder and more noticeable. Sometimes to the point that Claude herself didn't realize that they were more than they seemed and not just weirdoes.

She spent an entire week preparing, cramming her head with vital information and the primary mannerisms of a typical American witch. Some of it was stuff she learned in American history with a strange twist to it – such as how Abraham Lincoln's hat held a lot more than it appeared to and that the rivalry between Republicans and Democrats was the result of a badly aimed Tarantellegra Hex. It was a few of the other things that threw her for a loop. These included Quodpot – which she was supposed to defend with nearly unreasonable fashion – along with the American ministry, the schools, several spells, and various entertainers.

Claude began to wonder how Evans – no, Potter! – managed to hold all the information in. Though, on the other hand, the kid had probably had much more time to adjust to the whole thing than she did.

No matter what the case was, she would have to make do with what she had. It was now the time.

Adam found out about the gala event from his new wizarding buddies: "_tricksupthesleevesFletcher_", "_FudgeHater178_", and "_Wotcher"_. Apparently, the Minister of Magic was holding this big event in hopes of garnering more support and money from Britain's wizarding population and the rest of the wizarding world. The country's most influential people would be there – the guest list including the famous Harrison Evans. The other three would not be attending – Helena Crawford would be speaking in Germany (which was a pity, in Claude's opinion), Elissa Fowler was currently in Mexico, and Joseph West was in Los Angeles. But one out of four wasn't bad.

As guaranteed by these sort of huge bashes, confusion abounded.

It was easy to get in. All she had to do was act important, make sure that she had a stick of wood with her that looked like that damned redhead's, had no cameras on hand, hope to high heaven she wouldn't be asked to perform magic, and wear wizarding formalwear and she was ready to roll.

The blonde snuck in through the back under a rolling cart, cut across the kitchen, and out the doors into the main reception hall. Sticking her nose up in the air (it made quite a sight considering its size), she passed the man taking names at the door with a scathing look that made him back up in fear and acquiescence.

Claude smiled grimly and applauded herself (in her mind, of course). _Oh yeah. Who's boss here?_ _Me, that's who, _she chanted in her head. Adjusting the purple robes (_How can they wear these things! Honestly, they're either coats that are too long or glorified bathrobes!)_ she had chosen from the selection outside (she stole them from witch too busy gushing over some musician that she didn't notice) over her crisp white suit. Claude noticed that she made a good choice in attire – she looked like a "muggleborn" or whatever. She smiled at a couple of people whom she didn't know and got a few nods as well.

It was about this time she was realizing how Harry Potter managed to conceal himself for so long. If these were the nation's best, then it wasn't hard. She restrained giving the finger to an arrogant-looking wizard who glanced her way before she spotted him. The tall imposing black man, who looked to be some kind of law enforcement official, deterred her. _Calm yourself, girl. Getting into a fight here is a bad idea. You're probably the one of the few here who can't do any magic._ She tapped her ear experimentally, slightly comforted by the fact that Adam was hearing and seeing everything that she was. There was a disconcerting buzz of static, but it wasn't as bad as it had been in that interrogation room.

It was then that she caught sight of him. Harrison Evans in the flesh.

_Holy mother of crap, this kid is young._ Of course, he was still taller than she was, but so was most of the room's occupants. His glasses gave him a kind of hazy outline, but it seemed that she was the only person who noticed. He was well dressed for the occasion and seemed to be handling all the pressure and attention pretty well. Perusing the room, she could see that quite a number of people were watching him, some out of the corner's of their eyes, others outright staring. But they didn't approach.

_Probably because of that redhead, _she thought hotly, remembering their…conversation.

He was by the punch bowl, pointedly not accepting the drink being offered by a familiar redhead. Claude tried to keep her cool as she approached, grabbing a fluted glass of champagne from a waiter as she made her way towards the two – if only to keep her hands occupied.

The redhead then left and Claude quickly swooped in before anyone else could catch his attention. A young waif of a girl with platinum blonde hair and sharp gray eyes appeared extremely put out and stomped back to her father talking to a man with a lime green bowler hat in his hands, who was as dark as she was pale. She glared at her, but Claude was unperturbed.

"I've finally found you, Mr. Evans," she said to the teenager, lifting her champagne glass in a mock toast. "How wonderful it is to see you in person."

"I can say the same," the kid retorted, his mouth forming a smirk that seemed far too cunning for someone so young. "Ms. Matchison, is it? Your skills are quite admirable. Not only did you find me, but also managing to do it despite the so-called impenetrable security. And you managed to instill such fear in my relatives after one meeting! Commendable." He raised his own glass in homage. "I do hope you will keep my identity a secret."

Claude snorted. "Of course. I'm doing any favors for these guys after that obliviate-thing they did to me."

Evans frowned. "They interrogated you. But they don't know?"

"They didn't ask me about _Harrison Evans_, so don't worry your pretty little head," she said.

"I see I don't have to," he replied, smiling in relief. But she saw how it didn't reach his calculating eyes, visible behind the sunglasses. "How did you manage to throw the spell off?"

"I was asked about what I thought of the donuts and coffee of London," Claude answered truthfully, her nose crinkling in disgust, and the young teen **_truly_** laughed.

It was then that the red-haired young man rushing came back; two glasses of red wine in his hands, looking hurried and excited. "Mr. Evans, maybe **_this_** will suit your tastes better-" However, a seated person suddenly pushed their chair out, causing the individual she was soon about to find out was named Percy Weasley to stumble. He managed to keep a hold of one glass.

The other? Splattered all over Claude's robes and nice white suit. The **_only_** white suit that she had.

She saw red. And seeing as some of the wine managed to get her in the face, this was slightly literal.

But mostly, metaphorical.

She immediately grabbed the stick of wood in her robes' pocket. Sure, she couldn't use it for magic. She was a muggle, pure and simple. Not only was her case interrupted, but the very person who tried to brainwash her in being a happy and polite person that didn't steal anything from the hotel ruined her **_only_** nice suit!

**_THIS MEANT WAR!_**

Payback was definite. As she advanced upon the slowly retreating redhead, she knew that he knew it too.

* * *

_Celestial Requiem_ will remain as it is and become an AU. The people have spoken. As Half-Blood Prince did yield a wealth of new information and characters, I may include some elements, but nothing that would drastically alter the storyline or mood. The direction of the plot will remain the same.

Also due to popular demand, Claude's misadventures in the universe of _Celestial Requiem_ will continue. I'm surprised how many people liked Claude, seeing as she is a rather up-front and brash person (to be put mildly). Will Percy survive the wrath of Claude?

This chapter leads into _Celestial Requiem_'s sixth chapter, where we'll find out what Harry thinks of the whole thing and why the rest are all where they are. Not to mention what he's been doing this whole time. All I will say about future events is that the party will be crashed. And the blonde girl mentioned by Claude is actually important. You'll see why in _CR_'s sixth chapter as well.

It is to be noted that there is nothing wrong with the donuts or coffee in Britain. In addition to the reason that Adam pointed out, Claude is also just extremely loyal to her local coffee shop and her local Dunkin' Donuts. We find out more of this later. But wouldn't you also be if the mere reminder allows you to break a memory charm? I'm afraid this makes the stuff back 'home' more dear to her.

Thanks for reading!

_---Raven Dragonclaw_


End file.
